^1^ir^:^,^:^!V<1iiilC^,i^>iix9ir^in^>ftt^l^^^ 



Lode Star 

larv Cromwell Low 



r«'?**«*'^*'rtf5««srfc>!WKt5«'5!f2^^ 




Odss TS 3^ 


CO o 


Bodc__i?!il__ 


' ( 


(simMW. 



CDEffilGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE LODE STAR 



THE LODE STAR 



BY 

MARY CROMWELL LOW 

w 



NEW YORK 

JAMES T. WHITE & CO, 
1920 






Copyright, 1919 
By Jame§ T. White & Co. 

JAN 27 ,'322 



FOREWORD 

Acclaimed by all the glories of the sky — those 
lovely tinted "Greeting Cards," with their unforget- 
able sentiments, issued by Dutton & Co. — comes Mary 
C. Low with another and lovelier gift, in this Collec- 
tion of poems gathered under the title of "The Lode 
Star." In addition to the touch of the artist. Miss 
Low has woven into her poems the optimism of her 
helpful, human philosophy, with all the delicacy and 
beauty of technique, which so distinguished her Cards; 
and, more, she has brought to them the vision of the 
mystic, while her poetic fancy has been given a wider 
flight. Her vision is that of one at the foot of the 
altar, who looks out upon the world with a divine 
desire. She has realized the truth of the saying of 
William T. Richards, the painter, that nothing great 
has been done in the world except from the attitude 
of the knees ; and, perhaps because of this very realiza- 
tion, her verse sounds the triumphant note of joy. 

Maeterlinck says, " Mystic truths have strange privi- 
leges; they can never age or die"; so these poems 
voice truths which are as deep as life. Sculpture and 
art express only the moments in life; poetry is life 
itself. And this is the feeling which is brought home 
to the heart upon reading Miss Low's verses. She 
has found the ineffable joy; but forgetting herself, she 
finds in her own eyes the tears of another. 
5 



Miss Low's verse has been said to suggest the style, 
the simplicity of imagery of Matthew Arnold. Her 
art is exquisitely delicate and is elusive of analysis, 
so much depending upon the intuitive sense which one 
brings to it. She has great power of interpretation, 
the rare gift of simple, direct expression, and a sure 
touch of personal sympathy. She has presented her 
poems in the following sequence : 

" HE LOOKS FOR THEE BOUND IN A FRAG- 
MENT" is love's search through human affection, 
through unsatisfied longings, for the hidden things 
of the soul. 

" ON THE ROAD OF THE MANY " intimates the 
winding paths of life's aspirations, and the devious 
roads of the soul's wanderings. 

In "TILL UNDER EACH FORM HE FINDS 
THEE, THE FORMLESS," Love finds that the road 
of many gleams and many allurements must come back 
to the one road that leads to God. 

It is an exquisite conception wrought out in tender- 
ness and tears, but which brings one face to face with 
the deep things of the spirit, into which are inex- 
tricably woven the realities of life. 

This Cycle of Love embodies the thoughts that have 
made her " Greetings " so admired and sought after, 
and it will be read and reread with a hushed heart 
and with a feeling that the reader is standing on 
hallowed ground. 

James Terry White. 

6 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

PROEM " 

HE LOOKS FOR THEE BOUND IN A FRAG- 
MENT 13 

THE AWAKENING IS 

MATIN SONG ^6 

IF I COULD KNOW ^7 

WHEN EYES HAVE MET I8 

MERTENSIA 19 

ON GANNETT HILL 20 

THE SUNSET HOUR 21 

POETS SUPREME LOVERS ARE 22 

GIPSY FIRE 24 

MY GIFT 25 

A WISH 26 

FOREBODING . . . . i 26 

WHY? 27 

THE HARP UNSTRUNG 28 

AN ANSWER 29 

SONG ^ ..... 30 

WHEN SHADOWS FALL 3^ 

A SONG-SPARROW SINGS » . 3^ 

ON THE AVENUE 32 

AFTER MANY YEARS 34 

ON THE ROAD OF THE MANY 35 

THE WAY IS DARK Z7 

FACING EAST 38 

who'll tell? 39 

7 



PAGE 

EXTERNALS 4^ 

AS WE FOLLOW 4^ 

IN RETROSPECT 43 

ANOTHER CHANCE 44 

HARLEQUIN 44 

TEMPTATION 45 

RESOLUTION 45 

THE PESSIMISTIC POETS 4^ 

THE WILL TO DIE 4^ 

AFTER SEEING " THE TROJAN WOMEN " . . . -50 

HORLORGER — BIJOUTIER 53 

" NOT IN THE ABUNDANCE OF THINGS " . . . • S^ 

FIFTH AVENUE AT 42ND STREET 5^ 

WILLIE RUGH 6l 

THE OLD MAN SPEAKS 63 

THE SCISSORS GRINDER 67 

WHERE THE BLAME? 7^ 

THE PERUVIAN TAPESTRY 7^ 

THE WONDERSMITHS 7^ 

SINGIN' PAYS 78 

ON THE BEACH AT SOUTHAMPTON 79 

BERYLUNE 81 

SESTINA 84 

FIREFLIES ON MIDSUMMER NIGHT 86 

SIC TRANSIT 89 

THE DARK HOUR pO 

BECAUSE I KNOW 9^ 

AT EVENING TIME 92 

UNDER EACH FORM HE FINDS THEE . . 93 

MY WINDOW TO THE SKY 95 

BEYOND 96 

BACK OF THE SUNSET 97 

HE KNOWS 98 

8 



PAGE 

THE GIFTS 99 

ONE SPRINGTIME 100 

THE ONLY ROAD 101 

EVERYMAN 102 

IN MEMORIAM 103 

THE LOTUS SEED IO4 

BENEATH ARCTURUS 105 

MY GARDEN WALK I06 

INTO HIS HOUSE IO7 

MY OFFERING I08 

HIGHWAY AND BYWAY IO9 

SONG OF THE WINGED SOUL IH 

L'enVOI 112 

SONNETS 113 

THE WINE OF LIFE II5 

LOVE PLAYS FOR THOSE WHO UNDERSTAND . , .1X6 

A DIM REMEMBRANCE STIRS 117 

I LEARNED TO KNOW II8 

THE THOUGHT OF YOU II9 

I LOVE THEE 120 

THE LOVE I SING 121 

I SING BECAUSE I MUST 122 

YOU WROUGHT THE JOY, NOT I 123 

IMMUNITY 124 

THE BATTLE IS NOT YOURS 125 

BY PATHWAY OF THE EVENING STAR . . . . I26 
LIEP'S LODE STAR 127 



PROEM 

LOVE the inscrutable, nameless, the formless, 
Love that is older than sands of the earth, 
Renewer, transformer, the bringer of blossoms. 
Love that can lead even death to re-birth — 
How man has sought thee, how he has lost thee, 

Blinded by tinsel a-shine in the sun! 
He sets up his altars in world-windy places. 
ON THE ROAD OF THE MANY, he seeks Thee 
the One. 

He knows not, unwitting, through all things he seeks 
thee. 
Lured by the call of impassable streams. 
He gropes through each pleasure, unsatisfied, longing, 
For^ Something that's nearer than breath of his 
dreams. 
He sees not, HE LOOKS FOR THEE BOUND IN 
A FRAGMENT; 
He travels all pathways resting on none, 
Till UNDER EACH FORM HE FINDS THEE, THE 
FORMLESS, 
AND THE ROAD OF THE MANY, GLEAMS — 
EVERYWHERE, ONE. 



II 



ONWARD, ever onward, through unknown ways, 
the Traveler moves, blindly searching for some- 
thing he knows not what; impelled by a power he can- 
not explain — Love, the Lode Star, drawing him even 
as he searches until, in some strange pass of the way, 
the veil drops down; seeker and sought meet; and, in 
the light of clear understanding, all the shadows of 
the Road grow radiant with beauty, all the silence be- 
comes song. 



12 



HE LOOKS FOR THEE BOUND IN A 
FRAGMENT 



?3 



A few years more — or a few years less — 
And life had sung from the blossomed bough, 

"No more road through the wilderness, 
Paradise opens, and here and now." 

A fezv years less — or a few years more — 
With love to travel from year to year. 

And there'd be no need of the other shore. 
Heaven were ours, and now and here! 



H 



THE AWAKENING 

DEEP in the heart of an ancient wood 
I heard a white-throat sing 
Of bud and blossom and ultimate good, 
One life through everything. 

And under the shade of the forest-tree 
Where the delicate hare-bells grew, 

I heard the wonderful Voice of Life — 
The cry of my heart for you! 



15 



MATIN SONG 

OLOVE, what would you say if you but knew 
How all my days are lifted by the thought 
That, as Ionian maidens one time brought 
Their offerings of wine and flowers which grew 
In myrtle groves, beneath Ionian blue, 
To deck one shrine; so all my life-work, wrought 
With broidery, my best, someday up-caught 
In golden glory may be given you ! 

And for that great, glad hour which yet may be, 

I strive through every part of every day 

To weave the pattern fair; in purity 

Of outline, stainless thought and high, alway, 

Till, through the finished fabric, men shall trace 

In threads all gold, your influence, your place. 



l6 



IF I COULD KNOW 

IF I could know that someday you would come 
Across the fields — though late, when all the air 
Was filled with harvest home and even-song; 
If I could know that you would come to me, 
And walk with me the darkening path toward home, 
I know I should not care how hard the day, 
I know I should not reck how rough the steep. 
Nay, rather, would I gather every fliower 
Of purity, of beauty and of worth 
The passing hours might scatter on my way. 
As miser hoards his gold, I'd treasure them 
For you, against that time when you would come — 
If I but knew ! 



17 



WHEN EYES HAVE MET 

WHEN eyes have met 
(As yours and mine) 
And meeting, felt 
A breath divine 
Had sudden touched 
The grey old earth, 
And called all fair 
Sweet things to birth; 
When, standing thus, 
And each by each. 
There was no need 
Of fuller speech — 
Each knew the other 
Understood 
That life was great. 
And God was good. 
Oh, tell me this. 
When eyes have met 
(As yours and mine) 
Can eyes forget? 



i8 



MERTENSIA 

IN a secret place of the far-away, 
Where the sunshine glances through 
The budding green of the hickory bough, 

And the spring makes all things new, 
Is an isle where the faerie flower-bells nod. 
Like bits of the heaven's own blue. 

And hidden away in the heart of the dell 

Is a day all gold, in-wrought 
With a matchless music, a mystic spell, 

From the charm of the blue-bells caught; 
Or was it a glory no word could tell 

From the heart's unspeakable thought? 

Or was it some song which the oriole sung 
From the branch of the tasseled tree? 

Or the robin's trill? Or the wild-wood stream 
Which wrought the wonder for me? 

Or was it a something deeper still — 
A note of life's mystery? 

Be that as it may in the far-away 
Where the twilight shadows sleep, 

And the west winds play with the blue-bell spray, 
A day lies buried deep. 

And none may molest its place of rest 
For the woods their secret keep. 



19 



ON GANNETT HILL 

IF all the world were wind and trees 
And clouds and bits of sky, 
And everywhere were flowers and bees, 

And only you and I 
Were there to watch the wind at play, 

And find the hidden song — 
Though days were whole eternities, 
They'd not seem long. 

If all the world were green with May, 

And every branch a bower 
Of budding bloom and leafy spray; 

If through the day, each hour 
Were not inwrought with thought of you 

To wing its flying feet — 
In spite of bird and bud and bloom, 

It were not sweet. 

But were the whole world wilderness 

With storm and wintry weather. 
Could you and I each other bless. 

And read the years together. 
We still would find our bit of gleam. 

Our birds, our sky of blue. 
The world would hold no starless night. 

If I had you! 



20 



THE SUNSET HOUR 

I SEND my thought across the world 
To find you in the distant west. 
The sunset, on my poplar trees 
Awakens restless memories 
Of other hours of rest. 

And distance dies. In spite of miles, 
In spite of circumstance and place, 
My comrade, I can feel you near 
Each time I whisper God, to hear 
My prayer for His rich grace; 

His strength to keep you steadfast, sure, 
However dark the hour appears; 

His light to lead you up the miles 

Of hill-road to the Afterwhiles 
Where waits the sunrise of the years. 

Good-night, my comrade, loyal friend! 

The day drops toward the waiting west, 
One great fire-flower with leaves unfurled. 
I send my thought across the world 

To whisper you my wish, — God's best. 



21 



POETS SUPREME LOVERS ARE 

POETS . supreme lovers are, 
Fashioned of all-vibrant clay, 
And responsive. When love's star 
Sheds its radiance on their way, 

Naught they lack; they have life's best. 

Naught transcends it, naught compares. 
Even untoward circumstance. 

Like a royal robe, love wears. 

And the poet, love's acolyte, 
Burning still with astral fire, 

Moves amid the commonplace. 
As through glories which inspire. 

Finding in the shadow, light; 

Seeing weary things a-gleam 
With rare joy, unspeakable, 

Grown more beautiful than dream — 

Traveler on imperial road, 

Though it lead through wilderness. 
In his song he twines a rose 

And an added tenderness. 

This I knew by others' joy. 

And I traveled long and far, 
Following the voice which called, 

Seeking still the poet's star. 



Sudden, by a thorn-set hedge, 

In the gardens of desire, 
I saw the minstrel, and my heart 

Wreathing lilies for his lyre. 

Songs I've heard, but this was Song. 

Perfect, matchless, all-complete. 
All the little hoped-for joys 

Blossomed at the minstrel's feet. 

And his song ? It breathed my name ; 

It had called me through the years ; 
And I knew my heart would find . . . 

But I never thought of tears. 

Dark between us rose the hedge, 
And I could not pass beyond; 

Nor could the minstrel come to me — 
However sweet his song and fond. 

I could not linger; Life denied. 

I could not even touch one rose 
Or stainless lily-flower a-bloom 

Within that happy garden-close. 

And none could change the written scroll. 

But as I go from hill to hill, 
The echo of that strange, sweet song — 

The minstrel song, is round me still. 
23 



And through it all, a triumph rings. 

My heart, unchallenged, had passed through 
The briar hedge. And I go on, 

Leaving there my heart . . . and you. 



GIPSY FIRE 

AS wood, in burning, holds a flame — 
A silent beauty of its own, 
Through simple mention of your name, 
My heart all leaping light has grown. 

The shadows dance, and laugh, and play, 
That were so dark and fierce and strong. 

And winter sudden turns to May — 
The thought of you brings back the SonjT* 



MY GIFT 

I AM thinking of you, wishing 
I had gold to buy to-day, 
Just the thing to make you happy. 

Wishing I might drive away 
All the care and all the worry. 

All the heart-ache, all the fears. 
I have only love to send you — 
Faithful love for all the years. 

Yet a line of ancient story, 

Half-remembered, writ in rhyme, 
Comes to tell me love casts glory 

Over every hour of time. 
Take my gift, then, take and wear it! 

Let me feel that in some way 
I have cast a gleam of gladness 

Over all your path to-day. 



25 



A WISH 

MAY your trees be nesting places 
For the singing birds of spring, 
And everywhere the traces 
Of happiest happening. 

And yet I would not wish you 

Everywhere, the skies 
Of shining summer brightness; 

More deep my wishing lies. 

There's a greater, richer blessing — 
The power to know, to see 

That, sometimes, shaded pathways 
Are lanes to Arcady. 



FOREBODING 

THERE was ever foreboding somewhere. 
My thought always ran to you, 
Welcoming, laughing, expectant; 
But often it brought back rue. 

It often returned half-saddened; 

But it never would disclose — 
Perhaps it never discovered — 

Why rue should displace the rose! 



26 



WHY? 

I HAVE failed — failed — failed! 
But when and where and how? 
Was it because I longed to see 
The laurel on your brow? 

Was it because I stepped aside — 

All other things forgot — 
That you might take the upper path 

Where thorns are not? 

Was it because I tried to plant 

Within your garden close, 
One blue, blue flower, where yellow bee 

Might house and home? God knows. 



27 



THE HARP UNSTRUNG 

IT isn't because a friend lies dead; 
It's because one proves untrue, 
That the gold of the crocus is dimmed to-day — 
The sky of a sullen hue. 

Each flower in my garden droops its head, 

But not from the touch of frost; 
Each shares my wonder, uncomforted — 

A trusted friend is lost. 

Dear God, is it true? Do honor and faith 
Count naught in the scheme of things? 

Does confidence always bear dark fruit? 
Does kindliness break its wings? 

Is friendship mere fancy of poet-dream? 

In this world of change and chance 
Is there always a rat, which gnaws at the root 

Of happy circumstance? 

Or is there somewhere, sometime, some place, 

A something sincere and true. 
Where the flower and the ripened fruit are sweet 

As the bud from which they grew? 



28 



AN ANSWER 

YOU ask what to do with our dead — 
The living we love no more, 
Who, somewhere, have dealt us a terrible wrong 

Which stabbed to the very core? 
Times are when they poison the days, 

They shadow God's stainless blue. 
Whatever the reason, forgive them; forgive, 

And life will its best renew. 
The ghosts who have haunted us long. 

The dead who never have died. 
May not, as of old, walk the yesterday paths 

Where once they walked by our side; 
But skies will regain their own blue; 

The rose hold its gold, once more; 
Because of the living — these women and men, 

Forgiven, and loved as before. 



29 



SONG 

WHAT matter your friendship has strayed 
Into byways and hedges of bloom; 
What matter winds easterly drive 

From caves where the grey riders loom. 
I still can be friends with the grass 

And the bird and the blossoming tree. 
I can — oh ! I know I can pass 
On the highroad, uncaring and free. 

I know I can go through the years 

With my eye on the ultimate goal. 
I know I can — God! — but these tears 

And the hurt of the iron in my soul! 
For wherever I turn me or look, 

In quest of a something that's new, 
I find an invisible veil 

Of memory woven — and you! 



30 



WHEN SHADOWS FALL 

ti l" X OW will it be," I have often said 

1. JL " When I'm told that forever the light has 
flown? 
When the day which held my joy lies dead. 
And I face the infinite dark alone?" 

I know at last, for the sun has set. 

I know what you do when the shadows fall. 
You just go on, and try to forget 

When you know you must always remember — that's 
all! 



A SONG-SPARROW SINGS 

A SONG-SPARROW sings from the elder-spray; 
I'm glad to hear him — and yet, 
As I listen and listen the trouble stirs, 
And wakens a vague regret. 

His song is of gladness, of gladness and cheer. 

But why are my lashes wet? 
Why shouldn't a song-sparrow sing alway? 

A bird has no grief to forget! 



31 



ON THE AVENUE 

I SAW you on the street to-day — 
The years have passed and you are old. 
Your step has lost the spring of May. 
I saw you on the street to-day; 
No trace remains that yesterday 

Held hours of honor, days of gold. 
I saw you on the street to-day; 
The years have passed and you are old. 

I wish there might have been some mark 
To show the triumph of your way; 

Some gleam to strike against the dark. 

I wish there might have been some mark — 

Some glow of inner fire, one spark 
To shine all through your house of clay. 

I wish there might have been some mark 
To show the triumph of your way. 

As up the Avenue you passed, 
And I passed down the other side, 

I wondered. We had met at last. 

As up the Avenue you passed, 

I thanked God; on his loom re-cast, 
My grey grows gold through time and tide, 

As up the Avenue you passed 
And I passed down the other side. 



32 



You once were free of wing — not I. 

Now I'm the free, beyond a doubt. 
Unchained, I soar beyond the cry. 
You once were free of wing, not I ; 
But now bring gift or gift deny. 

Life's best I've learned — to do without. 
You once were free of wing, not I; 

Now I'm the free, beyond a doubt. 



33 



AFTER MANY YEARS 

HOW changed thou art who changed the world 
for me ! 
How changed is all the world! How changed am I 
That, face to face at last, no slightest cry 
From heart or soul awakes one song for thee! 
And memory? It seemed it could not be 
That memory could change ; and yet, so high 
Above regret for things that pass and die 
She climbed through pain, she out-reached misery. 

Oh, can it be the heart is traitor-born, 

That, unconcerned, it sees the fast closed door, 

The rusted lock, the key forever gone? 

Nay, rather count it facing toward the morn. 

Experience hath served, and evermore 

The soul, by the soul's law, must up and on! 



34 



ON THE ROAD OF THE MANY 



35 



All the way ivinds upward, upivard, 
Rough and steep the climb; 

But I hear the hill-wind music 
Flung from all the heights of time. 

Faint and far behind the ridges, 
Hear the echoes breathe and blow : - 

" Joy is waiting, somewhere — find her! 

Go and find her, quickly! Go!" 



?6 



THE WAY IS DARK 

THE way is dark? 
Keep cheer, my heart. 
From the next height 
May gleam a light; 
And far faint music 
Steals across the starless night. 

The way seems long; 
But farther on — 
A little farther on — 
Thou'lt find the Song! 



17 



FACING EAST 

SOMEWHERE beyond — I know not where, 
Beneath what fair unclouded skies; 
I only know beyond — somewhere, 
The Land of Fulfilled Promise lies. 

I hear the call, I see the Light — 
A sure clear gleam upon the way; 

And up the steep, across the night, 
I go to meet the certain Day. 



38 



WHO'LL TELL? 

WHO'LL tell 
What spell 
Makes dull earth dream 
Through night, 
Of light 
And morning gleam ? 

Who knows 

Whence blows 

The wind, which brings 

To earth 

New birth — 

Fresh blossomings? 

From north? 

From south? 

From east? From west? 

Who knows 

Whence blows 

The wind that's best? 

Who knows? 
The rose — 
Aye, it might tell. 
It holds 
At heart 
The secret spell 
39 



Of dark 

Turned brig'ht; 

Of light from gloom; 

The rain 

Of pain 

Changed to perfume. 

All things 

That are 

At heart, it knows. 

But who'll 

Find out? ... 

" Who knows the rose " ? 



40 



EXTERNALS 

HOUSES of brick and of stone, 
Dwellings where men abide. 
How little we know 
As we come and we go, 
Of the lives of the folks inside ! 

Fashioned of flesh and of bone, 
Houses where souls abide. 
How little we guess, 
In the throng and the press. 

Of the life that is lived inside ! 

Houses and houses and houses. 
We see as we walk or we ride. 
And often we ask. 
As we look at the mask, 

"Lurks devil, or saint inside?" 



41 



AS WE FOLLOW 

WE travel this tanglewood. Why? 
We asked not to come — but we're here. 
And blind is the trail; we descry 
No sign of a blaze far or near. 
We call out for guidance in fear 
Of dangers which lurk, lest we fall. 

But only the fen-lights appear. 
We shall know as we follow . . . that's all. 



On every side rings the same cry, 

"Whence came we, and why are we here? 
To agonize, wither and die? 

To lose everything we hold dear? 

Will never the mystery clear? 
Must always the shadow appall 

As into the future we peer? 
We shall know as we follow . . . that's all. 



We question — but never reply. 

We grope our way, year after year, 
Through lanes where the fallen leaves lie- 

And a sigh and a jest and a tear. 

Though round us the fickle winds veer, 
And storm-clouds hang dark like a pall, 

We hope with the old pagan seer, 
We shall know as we follow . . . that's all. 

42 



What's this, O my heart, do I hear 
A troublesome doubt to forestall? 

I thought yours the confident cheer, 
We shall know as we follow . . . that's all. 



IN RETROSPECT 

I TOOK me back to the day when dreams 
And the world and I were young. 
I opened the window and dusted the beams 
Where cobwebs long had hung. 

The light shone in on the withered flowers. 

Youth wore at its carnival; 
And the dreams were hags in faded rags. 

Muttering "Child's play, all!" 



43 



ANOTHER CHANCE 

IF I could but re-live those years, 
And have another chance, I know. 
In spite of aftermath of tears, 
And all the vain regrets and fears 

Which mock the onward way of men; 
If I could but re-live those years — 
I'd play the fool again! 



HARLEQUIN 

DESPAIR once taught him how to smile, 
And Sorrow gave the cloak of Joy. 
Then people said, " His days are bright, 
His happiness, without alloy." 

O blinded eyes ! O surface sight ! 

If cloak and smile could make men glad, 
They'd always mask, nor let folks know 

How hollow were the joys they had. 



44 



TEMPTATION 

I FED the beast again to-day ; 
And now, its hideous form, 
Ferocious, holds the very way 
I thought to take by storm. 

There is no compromise with beasts; 

The only, only way 
When they come fawning down the path, 

Is up, and smite, and slay. 



RESOLUTION 

i*T WILL be strong to bear life's pain . . . some- 
X day " 

I said ; and even as I made the vow, 
A something close beside me whispered, " Nay — 
Say not, 'someday'! Be strong — but here and 
now!" 



45 



THE PESSIMISTIC POETS 

WE ask for a song of the Spirit ; 
You give us a stone instead. 
What are your quibble and doubting 

To men who are hungry for bread? 
Your word is an unending question, 

An end in an unending night; 
"The Veil of thick darkness," your answer. 
To men who are crying for light. 



You say, when a Sicily's shaken. 

And cities in ruin o'erthrown, 
A monster lies back of creation — 

A monster who sports with his own. 
You jest, and you smile in derision 

At creeds of the soul, new and old ; 
You look — but your looking lacks vision; 

You laugh — but your laughter runs cold. 



We're men in the thick of the battle; 

God knows that we need them — the songs; 
But rank us as men, not as cattle; 

Place spirit where spirit belongs. 
Have we climbed through the ages no higher 

Than level of earth-worm or brute? 
Is there nothing of worth to aspire? 

No height with its vision to suit? 

46 



Shall the next age from this age inherit — 

When the rage of this age is past — 
A torch that's inverted and blackened 
Where the blaze was enkindled to last? 
Shall it find painted shadow for substance? 
A jest, at the center of things? 
Shall it peer in the eyes of the serpent, 
As it drinks from the nethermost springs? 

No ! Give us some word of the spirit, 
With the faith and the courage it brings ; 

Let us hear at our sense-darkened windows, 
The beat of invisible wings ! 

Point the path that shall end in the endless ! 
Sing — more than man's power to endure — 

The Power over all things eternal. 
And the goal of the soul which is sure! 



47 



THE WILL TO DIE 
(Rupert Brooke — Scyros, 1915) 

HE stood among the cities of the plain, 
A youth, with passionate desire of life, 
With gift of song and longing great to be 
A master builder. 

" These, not these," he cried. 
" My city — it shall ' beacon the world's night ' ; 
Each tower shall gleam a light against the dark, 
And men who come and go shall know that work 
Has been, love-crowned with song and golden hours, 
Adventurous days and glint of holier things. 
Through all the years that lie ahead, I'll build . . . 
God, how I'll build!" 

Ere yet the light had faded from his dream, 
When all was splendor, youth and fire and morn, 
From out the very blue there came a call — 
The call of country . . . and of sacrifice. 

The longing, eager, fierce desire to live 
Clamored insistent . . . And then ... he saw 
The great white shining hopes of all the years, 
The towers of dream, the glorious might-have-been. 
The city never builded, unlived days. 
And all the measure of life's loveliness; 
These, these were his ... to give. 
48 



He turned 
To face the shadow, dauntless, unafraid. 
An instant . . . one quick flash . , . the test supreme; 
His very love of life, transcending life, 
To white heat fused,, became the zuill to die. 
Thereby his soul stands proved. He is, through time, 
A Master Builder of towers invisible, 
Whose measure no man knows . . . but only God. 

Today he sleeps, untroubled, unforgot, 

With all the vision splendid unfulfilled; 

And yet, grown great, complete though incomplete. 

One more unfinished city of the plain; 

One more unfinished dream; another singer 

Mute . . . What gain? . . . Another Hfe 

Gone out in this stupendous sacrifice. 

And God alone who knows why such things be, 

Knows how it is, that, losing all, he gained 

His immortality. 



49 



AFTER SEEING " THE TROJAN WOMEN " 
(At the Stadium, 1915) 

HOW man has made his heritage a hell 
To satisfy ambition and desire! 
What havoc wrought! 

Where laughing loves have been, 
And Joy and Gladness broidering the screen, 
Sits Sorrow old as earth, nurtured by man 
Whose life no more than shadow is, a span, 
Woven of light and dark, of human hopes 
And fears and the unalterable years. 

" This babe! 'Twas a strange murder for brave men! 
Marked ye? Heard ye? The crash of towers that fall! 
Thou of the Ages wherefore Ueest thou?" 

Is this the voice of ancient Troy across 

The centuries? Or cry of frenzied lands 

Across the troubled water? Lo! ages 

Are as nothing; past and present, night 

And dawn, laughter of children, tears, and the great 

Mis-shapen years, beneath the sun, are one ! 

The air is thronged with presences unseen; 

And back of all, the eternal mystery 

Of One Supreme, who holds the years as grains 

Of sand within the hollow of his hand. 



50 



Conquering days, which had their triumph, call 

To this red-handed year. No skill of arms 

They sing — not war and power and glory. They show 

What lies behind — cruelty and woe, 

The cry of helpless women, children slain, 

Cities smouldering where the curse has been ; 

And lust and shame and sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, 

And all the aftermath of hate which springs 

To-morrow and to-morrow. 

" Gifts of war 
Are dearth and desolation," loud they cry. 
" We, too, were children in the lap of Time. 
But we have tasted triumph, and we know 
That war no glory is, but hell and woe ! " 

So real, and almost more than life can bear, 
This ancient sorrow rends the modern air. 
Oh, shame! thrice shame! that war in any land 
Should make our day so quick to understand ! 

But God ! the year is mad ! It cannot hear ! 
Drunk with rage and fury, hot with lust 
And hate, insatiate, it reels — a beast! 
Blear-eyed, it cannot see; and all the hounds 
Of hell, unleashed, complete its savagery! 

How long, O Lord, how long shall these things be? 
Has there not been enough to make men heed? 
51 



Great Soul behind the Universe, to Thee, 

In utter need and helplessness we call. 

" What way? " we cry, and groping cry, " What way? " 

But all is dark. There must be some path out. 

Though men find none. 

Thou Father of us all, 
For all this needless waste, to Thee we cry! 
For all the pitiless to-morrow, all 
The ruined heritage, the bitter sorrow, 
The toil and burden of our children's way, 
Stay Thou the curse ! 

And for the unshaped day, 
(Fair fruitage of these sacrificial tears) 
Grant this war be the last ! Cleanse Thou our thought ! 
From darkness, bring forth light to make men see 
How glory most inglorious is when built 
On misery! So shall this broken age, 
Throughout all time, torch-bearer be to nations; 
And nevermore, on land or air or sea. 
Shall man, red-branded with his brother's blood 
Acclaimed be. 



52 



HORLORGER — BIJOUTIER 

(True incident of a Park Avenue Shop) 

<4TT ORLORGER — Bijoutier" 

A X Is the sign above the door. 
A little bell rings as you enter in, 
And a board creaks in the floor. 

It's a musty, rusty, dusty shop, 

With watches hung in a row. 
And clocks which dispute all time of day 

"You're fast "— tick-tock — " You're slow!" 

On the shelf with one — a veteran clock 
Which has out-lived many a storm, 

Is a photograph — the pictured face 
Of a lad in uniform. 

The horlorger sits at his window-desk, 

Mending a broken spring. 
Snapping a crystal back in place. 

Re-setting a jeweled ring. 

" Good-day, Madame." He rises at once ; 

His keen eye follows your glance. 
" The boy ? — My lad — on the fighting line — 

By a trick of circumstance! 

53 



"He reached Australia — a homesick one. 

In Sidney, he joined the Guard 
For the fun, the dancing. The war broke out — 

And . . . Madame ... it is hard! 

" But he was right. * There's nothing else 

That the man in me can do.' 
Here . . . read . . . it's his letter . . . ' I can't hack out 

When the fun's all gone! Could you?' 

" Madame . . . my boy . . . he's a splendid lad ! 

Out there, at the Dardanelles, 
What can he do against German guns 

And the bombs and the bursting shells ? " 

The old voice quavers, " Never a word 

Have we had this many a day. 
There's naught we can do, his mother and I, 

As we work, but pray, pray, pray. 

" Except . . . Madame . . . will you come and see ? " 

He leads through a narrow door, 
To an inner room where a pile of lint 

Lies white upon the floor. 

" This way, we follow him. See, Madame "... 

And he points to the pile of white. 
" We pick lint here . . . it's all we can do . . . 

We pick, pick, night by night. 

54 



Perhaps . . . who knows? It may reach the boy 

If he's hurt on the battle-line. 
Or others may need it — the lads out there, 

God help them ! — more than mine." 

There's nothing to say, but you clasp his hand; 

Then out, where nobody knows 
How, back of the sign, " Bijoutier . . ." 

A lint-pile grows and grows. 



55 



" NOT IN THE ABUNDANCE OF THINGS " 

HER home — a common city flat, 
You know the kind, the rent's not high; 
Four flights of dingy stairs she climbs 
To reach her place beneath the sky. 

Sometimes I go; I tread them all — 
The dusty halls, the narrow stairs; 

And marvel that such place can house 
A soul so seeming-free from cares. 

Until I reach her living-room; 

A square front space, an open door. 
An alcove, prints, selected books ; 

Some simple covering on the floor ; 

A chair or two, a window-seat . . . 

And yet what contemplation breathes! 
What quiet calm ! One block away 

The many-peopled city seethes 

With passing " L " trains* rush and roar. 
With noisy clang of motor car, 
With sounds innumerable which make 
The city life of jolt and jar. 

But here two windows overlook 
A wide free space of sky and park; 

A place of calm when toil is done, 
A star-lit road beneath the dark- 
56 



The great deep night, the far faint dawn, 
The light wind in the poplar trees, 

Forsythia with its Hving gold 
Brought from what hidden treasuries ; 

These call her out beyond the house, 
Beyond this body-house of time. 

By larger ways invisible 
She learns to soar, she learns to climb. 

At morn, a song, the flash of wing, 
A greening branch against the blue. 

And toil becomes a friendly thing. 
The " What-so-e'er thy hand may do." 

At eventide, the sunset light, 
Capella flashing golden fire; 
And life out-leaps the candle flame, 

Grown great as night with large desire. 

The town — a prison or a shrine. 
As one is held, or freed by strife — 

Finds here a place where simple things 
Throw wide the vast estates of life. 

Hers is a kingdom without bound, 
A King to whom each king defers. 

God keeps his gift unspeakable 
For lesser folk with soul like hers. 
57 



FIFTH AVENUE AT FORTY-SECOND 
STREET 

I STOOD at the busy corner 
Under a sunset sky. 
Everywhere rush and bustle 
Of the thousands hurrying by. 

From east and west on the side-walk, 
From north and south of the town, 

Everywhere, everywhere people. 
And the sun-gold splashing down. 

They waited their turn at the crossing. 
They watched for the green and the red ; 

Women in rags and in velvets, 
Men with eyes like the dead. 

"Have they no retreat?" I questioned — 
" No place where the bluebird sings ? 

Have they lost life's light in the dazzle 
Of greed and material things? 

" Or is it because of the struggle. 
Just working and ' getting a start * 

They move unmoved through the splendor 
With never a song at heart?" 

I stood at the busy corner 
Under the sunset sky, 
58 



Thinking my thoughts of the people 
Like blown leaves driven by. 

Sudden where bus and auto 
Were crowded by hansom and hack, 

Apart from the others — what was she? 
Madonna, or woman — in black? 

With a face that was . . . how shall I name it? 

Radiant, simple and strong. 
I found myself thinking of lilies 

And blossoming orchards and song. 

Out of the crowd like a vision, 

Back in the throng again; 
Her way was the way of the angels 

Who speak to the souls of men. 

And a bird in my spirit woke singing: 

" Amid all this turmoil of things, 
Down deeper than discord, God's purpose; 

At the heart of the world it sings. 

" This hurrying throng of the thousands. 

Like so many shuttles at play, 
Is constantly weaving His pattern, 

His definite meaning alway." 

59 



And sudden that busiest corner 
With hansoms and buses and cars, 

I saw, with new vision, God's highroad 
From earth to the outermost stars. 

A city within the city, 

A highway within the way; 
The infinite, shot through the finite; 

Luminous light, through the gray. 

And in it, the everyday people 
Were walking with shining feet; 

Life in the glow of the Presence 
Made inexpressibly sweet. 

And I turned to the Lord of the sunset, 
There in the market place . . . 

" Thank God for the gift of the highway, 
And the Light in a human face ! " 



60 



WILLIE RUGH 
(True incident of Gary, Indiana) 

THE motor had skidded and overturned; 
A girl was still under when something caught 
fire. 
There came the odor of varnish and flesh. 
They found her unconscious, and horribly burned. 

The doctor stood in the hospital hall 
As they carried her in. His face was grave. 
" There's only a chance, poor child," he said, 

" If we'd skin to graft . . . but where could we call ! " 

" She's a stranger here, there's no one to give." 
He spoke like a man whose word is prayer, 
As he turned and led down the corridor. 

" It's a chance, a chance ; but I think she'd live ! " 

Willie the newsboy stood at the door, 
He heard and smiled, then hobbled away 
After the doctor, humming a song. 

He never had been so happy before. 

" Perhaps you can use it — my withered leg." 
He said, as he panted the reason why 
He had come so fast, "And she need not go. 

" I'll manage as well on a wooden peg." 



6i 



Pain ran wild, but the lad endured. 

They had taken the leg just below the hip. 

Seven weeks woven of restless nights, 
And the girl's burned body at last was cured. 

But Willie, the cripple, so frail, alas ! 
Too frail for the ether, drooped like the flower 
His hot hand held. The nurses knew 

The brave little hero-soul must pass. 

And the call? It came at the sunset hour, 
When all the windows were touched with gold. 
The Shadow silently opened the door. 

And the light fell full on the white, white flower. 

He whispered to those beside his bed, 

" I never 'mounted to nothin' before. 

"Don't cry, Mammy." He stroked her hair. 
" I done sompin ' now for someone," he said. 

Whispering faint came the voice of the lad, 
As the white rose fell from his stiffening hand. 
" Tell her, Mammy, it's jes' all right. 

Tell her that I . . . that I'm . . . jes' . . . glad." 

The mother knelt, sobbing, beside the bed. 
The doctors and nurses turned away 
To hide their tears; but Willie Rugh, 

The " newsie," was crowned where there are no dead. 

62 



THE OLD MAN SPEAKS 

(Time, late afternoon. 

Scene, a rugged hillside overlooking a sordid mill 
village. On blackened areas, left by some forest fire 
are patches of fire-weed in brilliant bloom. Above 
these, and nearer the hill-top, an old man sits alone. 
A little later, a young lad joins him. 

The old man speaks). 

YOU wonder at me, lad? Nay, wonder not! 
I muse upon this hillside all alone 
By choice and happy memory led apart 
From rushing ways of this too busy world. 
For here I face reality, the calm, 
The bigness of the silence and the peace. 

And I have many things to think upon — 
Such thoughts as well may come to one grown old. 
The evening, as the morning, has its gleam; 
And night, the deep of heaven and the stars. 

Your way, the way of youth, is toward the noon. 
I traveled that road once; I know its call — 
The many-tinted splendor of its dream. 
And I — no, lad, I did not tread the halls 
Of fullest day; but I have had one glimpse. 
One perfect glimpse of dawn, so radiant, 
So passing wonderful, that even now 
My eyes grow dazzled at the mere remembrance 
63 



Of such beauty. Flower and light and Song — 
Such song I have not heard in any land, 
From any grove, embattlement or height — 
A melody my sense shall never feed 
Upon again, this side of heaven. 

I pass 
Along the high-road now, and toward the outer 
Bound where life slopes down to meet the sea. 
New thoughts new fancies weave; new mornings throw 
New light across my path ; and many things 
Are lost, aye, many more forgotten ; bits 
Of broken music float about my days. 
But one great deathless memory remains 
To walk beside me fair, unchanged, as pure 
As on that morn, when hope and love grown strong. 
Through all my being moved, and flung life's window 
wide. 

The day? Nay, lad, I never saw the day. 
Before the noon, I found a blinding dark — 
The burning bush where man may meet his God. 
But I have known the wonder of the dawn. 
Triumphant, radiant with promise, glad. 
And many souls there are, who wait and watch 
Through long, long years, yet never catch one gleam 
Of all the glory I have seen. 

Enough. 
God's finger closed the window; let it stay. 
64 



I praise Him for the light of that great hour, 
And for His gift of memory which keeps, 
Through all the strangeness of these after-ways, 
The full remembrance of those earlier days 
When life was song and love a perfect flower. 

And you, you pity, lad? Nay, pity not! 

I come not here to mourn a withered rose. 

To nurse an hour of unforgotten joy; 

Such task were meet for women not for men. 

I come to think, beside the sacred fire. 

Till thought, grown strong, shall make me strong to be, 

And from the height, go down to help the world. 

You see those houses huddled in the vale, 
Half-hid by factory smoke and dark with soot? — 
The sordid huts of men who grind and toil 
Through all the sunlit hours of every day 
Without one chance to breathe the free fresh air ; 
And who, for wage as scarce will buy enough 
To keep the hungry body, give their all. 
Within those wretched homes I've seen such sights 
As fain would move a stone to pity. God! 
That greed and gain, twin vampires of the age, 
Should feed their wine-presses with human blood! 

There, want and grim necessity join hands ; 
And everywhere there's cry for fuller light. 
There's suffering in the scheme; and since I've known 
The deeps of life, there's much for me to give. 
6S 



And there I minister from day to day, 
Happy if I can serve, by word or deed, 
Through little thing, or great, God's greater plan. 

I've found my part to play, and you'll find yours. 
My way of life led through Jerusalem, 
Even to the hill beyond the city gate. 
But yours, perchance, may lead beside the springs 
Of human happiness. My blessing take, 
For all the sunshine of the open road ! 
But if someplace upon the path, your eyes 
Are called to look upon the dark abyss. 
Remember this: — Look long, look deep; the dark 
Grows dazzling with a light beyond all word, 
When one can face it. Larger ways of life 
Unfold; God's hill appears; and on the slope, 
Eternal faerie meadows bright with flower. 

When God sees fit to take away our best, 
His taking is a gift ; there's beauty in it. 
The evening, as the morning, has its gleam; 
And night, the deep of heaven and the stars. 



06 



THE SCISSORS GRINDER 
(A True Incident) 

HE was poor, and his coat thin and tattered ; 
Old age held his feet on the stair. 
In his voice was a quaver, a question; 

In his eye lurked the light of despair. 
And yet there was something about him 

Which spoke of the culture of things — 
An air, as when woods in the winter 
Show traces of past blossomed springs. 

" Have you work, lady ? Knives to be sharpened. 

Or scissors or tools to be ground? 
If you have, let me take them ! " God's pity ! 

The eyes pleaded more than the sound. 
"You have ... a few knives? May I do them 

Outside on the chair in the hall? 
I'll put a good edge on, I promise, 

Right here within reach of your call. 

" What, lady ! You thought I was hungry ! 

You've brought me some food on a tray ! 
With dishes, clean napkin; such service 

I've not seen this many a day. 
Time was when I lived with them daily, 

But years change the things in our lives. 
And now — well, I'm just a poor grinder 

Of scissors, a sharpener of knives. 

67 



" I was all but beat out and discouraged. 

I thought of the God in one breath, 
And the next, I was courting the devil, 

And praying and longing for death. 
But you, lady, you have shown pity; 

You've not called me ' beggar ' and * shirk.' 
For the first time this day in the city 

You give what I ask — chance to work. 

"Have I children or wife who're dependent? 

No, lady; the wife is no more; 
And the child, my poor boy, he died fighting; 

He was shot in the Philippine War. 
I've given my boy to my country ; 

He died like a hero, I'm told. 
There's comfort, you know, in remembering, 

When the world and its ways are too cold. 

" You know not — God grant you may never 

Know doors that are closed in your face; 
Know jeers when you ask for employment; — 

One would think that to work were disgrace ! 
Is white hair a menace, I wonder, 

That men pass it by in disdain? 
God pity them all who have passed me! 

God save them from hunger and pain! 

" Ah lady, you've treated me handsome ! " 
The voice faltered. "All the long day 



I have tramped through the streets of the city, 
I have knocked at all doors on my way. 

But think you was any place opened? 
Was I given the chance to earn bread ? 

No. When I asked work I was flouted; 
Was I smiled at? No, kicked at, instead. 

"Ah, sometimes they have taken notice. 

They've spoken, in words that were ' nice,* 
Of trust in the God of the helpless. 

But that's all they gave, their advice. 
Advice to a man who is starving! 

Who's asking for work to buy bread ! 
' Excuse me — I'm having my luncheon 

I've no time to bother,' one said. 

" I'm just a poor man but I'm thinking, 

If God in his creatures is found, 
Some folks must have lost him entirely. 

Or hid him away safe and sound. 
I don't ask their charity money; 

I don't ask cold-blooded advice; 
But the soul and the heart of me's hungry. 

I'm asking for work — at their price! 

" But, lady, your knives are all sharpened. 

And the price? Well, you see it's this way. 
I can't charge you anything, lady; 

You've given me better than pay. 
69 



For you, lady, you have shown pity; 

You've given me strength for the fight. 
Now I can go through the city, 

And somehow the burden seems light. 

" Ah lady, you've treated me handsome ! 

Thank God I was led to your door ! 
You've given me work and new courage ; 

You've given me food, aye, and more. 
But pay me ? No ! lady, you've paid me. 

Paid better perhaps than you knew. 
You've fed me in soul and in body, 

And I am the debtor, not you ! " 



70 



WHERE THE BLAME? 

THOU Builder and Ruler of Worlds ! 
Thou Maker of Rock and of Wave! 
If the Ship thy Hand launched on the Deep 

Encounter false winds, 
If she keep to her course till strength fail, 
Then break on a Rock in the gale 
And reach not the end thy Word gave — 

Rests the blame 
With the Rock? 

Or the Ship? 

Or the Wave ? 



71 



THE PERUVIAN TAPESTRY 

(In the Museum of Natural History, New York. 
The only piece extant with the Inca flower upon it) 

I LIFT the ancient fabric with a reverential touch; 
I look long and close upon it; I cannot look too 
much 
On the old unfaded colors, on the curious design. 
By some human fingers fashioned in an Age remote 
from mine. 

I can hear the colors singing, in a measured undertone, 
Of the strange destructive touch of Time, the changes 

they have known. 
I understand imperfectly; I cannot grasp it all; 
But I hear the colors singing, and they hold my soul 

in thrall. 

Till I slip back through the Ages to the Thousand- 

Years-Ago. 
Back, through all the thousand years I drift, till clear 

and sweet and low, 
Like the wind which moves at evening beneath the 

corn-flowers' blue, 
I can hear the sound of singing in the Desert of Peru. 

It is a woman singing as she weaves a web so fine 
I wonder how her shuttle keeps the intricate design. 



Yet, with touch akin to magic, deft she plies it to and 

fro; 
Like the flight of darting swallows do her fingers 

come and go. 

Back and forth the shuttle flies, unwearied hour by 

hour, 
Until at last, beneath her hand, the Inca's sacred 

flower, 
Imperial blossom, springs to life, all fragrant through 

and through. 
With memory of a woman's song in the Desert of Peru. 

It is an outer garment which the woman weaves so fine 
With royal flower upon it, for one of princely line; 
For one who comes across the hills his love-tryst to re- 
new ; 
And I hear of promised feasting in the Desert of Peru. 

But faint and far another sound, by night-winds borne 

along, 
Strikes deep and sure across the chords. All broken 

lies the Song; 
The princely lover comes not. A Shadow hides the 

blue ; 
And I hear a woman weeping in the Desert of Peru. 

Her work stays not, it waits not, though the desert 

burns like flame 
As the hot breath of the noontide gives day another 

name. 

73 



Strange thoughts, grave doubts are woven in; dark 

spots, a tawny ground. 
Oh, can it be that it was he the spotted jaguar found? 

A woman works and questions, as she plies the slender 

thread, 
In hope of one sure word from him the spearmen left 

for dead. 
A woman waits and wonders, as a woman's heart must 

do; 
For love and trust and faith and hope are met in old 

Peru. 

But the minor chord is changing, and a deeper music 

flows, 
As, when at end, a dull grey day burns like a royal 

rose, 
So light breaks through the midnight, and a woman's 

heart beats fast 
With love and hope and high desire in perfect flower 

at last. 

For down the hills a warrior comes . . . not springing 

as of old, 
But bent and worn with many a scar and sufferings 

manifold. 
Set free at last from captive bonds, down wild, dark 

ways, he's come 
To keep the love-tryst, and to find those eyes whose 

light is home. 

74 



What matter that dread days have been, and weary 

years have flown! 
In spite of time and change and grief, the heart must 

know its own. 
What matter that Time's records show, if life to life 

beats true . . . 
And I hear a wonder music in the Desert of Peru. 

It knows no time, it knows no space; no near, no far- 
away. 

Through all the years we turn to hear that song of 
yesterday — 

The triumph-song of Hfe and love, till faint the last 
notes fall, 

And a silence and a vastness and a mystery cover all. 

But a strange light fills the desert, as that deathless 

wonder-dream 
Steps back among the vanished loves which haunt life's 

border-stream. 
And only this — the work — remains to tell how beauty 

grew, 
Through stainless days, for all men's praise in the 

Desert of Peru. 



75 



THE WONDERSMITHS 

WHAT do we care for the ways and the praise 
of the thing men call the world? 
In her silken rags, the wanton drags her standard in 

dust, unfurled 
To the variant winds of blind desire, by the heat of its 
breath upcurled. 

What do we care for the name and the fame and the 

minted coin of earth? 
Our wealth stands sure; its ways endure. From the 

great highroad of Birth 
To the Gate of Death, with our latest breath, we'll 

praise its changeless worth. 

Our joy is one with star and sun, the wind and the 

sapphire sea. 
The birds which fly through the far deep sky are not 

more blithe than we. 
The deathless springs of the Inner Things are the 

theme of our minstrelsy. 

With the gift of song, no way winds long; and we 

travel the old, old trail 
Be it dark or bright through a starless night, with a 

joy that can never fail. 
For the glad at heart, no worldly mart or fashion or 

power prevail. 



76 



Our one abode, a hut by the Road on the trail with 
never an end. 

While the world wags by, whatever the sky, our simple 
way we tend. 

And our notes of song, when the night is long, the sor- 
rows of earth do mend. 

We travel, or rest, with peace as guest on the long, 

long road of the miles. 
Let other folks hold their minted gold, their fashions 

and courtly styles; 
To us belong the Hills of Song, the Gleam and the 

Afterwhiles. 



n 



SINGIN' PAYS 

THERE'S singing in the kitchen; 
Black Anna's at the washtub. 
She mixes up her every task 
With little songs of light. 
" For it's jes' this way, Miss Mary, 

The rubbin' goes the faster. 
There's somethin' gets into the does. 
An' somehow makes 'em white. 

"An' maybe it's jes' seemin', 

But the singin' turns to color ; 
An' there's somethin' on the co'n-patch, 

There's somethin' in the breeze, 
Lak the thing you feel at sunset 

When the Katy-did's a-callin'. 
An' the sun goes splashin' gold an' red 

On all the apple trees. 

"An' there's a happy feelin' 

Roun' my heart when I keeps singin'. 
I jes' forgets the misery. 

When I keeps shoutin* praise. 
This plain old sudsy kitchen 

Is the place of Kingdom Glory. 
An* I does my work befor' the Lawd. 

I tells you, singin' pays." 



78 



ON THE BEACH AT SOUTHAMPTON 

IT was high tide once, 
And dawn and noon and sunset; 
And all the ocean vast was stirred 

Beneath the filling moon. 
Deep called to deep 

Across the line of shadow, 
And every foam-flower bore the print 

Of dancing fairy shoon. 
The white feet of the moonlight 

Touched the waters till they trembled 
With joy new-born — a something strange — 

Desire unknown before ; 
They heard the white moon calling, 

And they listened till they yielded. 
And rose and rose in mad delight, 

To swoon upon the shore. 

It was high tide once; 

But now the tide's retreated. 
The sand in ragged wavy lines 

Is fixed upon the beach; 
And here and there a sea-shell 

With story all completed, 
Lies high and dry beside the sea 

Tide-borne beyond its reach. 

Spiders weave their lace webs 
In open windy places. 

79 



The sea-pale sand-flies jump about; 

The sea-weed, brown and dried, 
Sports with the little breezes, 

Or with the wild wind races. 
Where sun-burned yellow pebbles bleach 

There once has been high tide. 

It was high tide once; 

But lo ! the tide is turning. 
The waves come nearer, nearer now, 

With little longer reach. 
And now, they've found the sea-shell. 

The story's not completed. 
The tides of life have come again 

To lift it from the beach; 

And all the bits of sea-weed 

Are dipping, dancing, floating. 
The yellow pebbles everywhere. 

Along the ocean side. 
Are moving out exultant; 

A new song is beginning; 
From shore to shore the triumph rings, 

" Again, again high tide ! " 



80 



BERYLUNE 

MUSIC in the waterfall, 
Music in the trees; 
Music in the robin's call, 

Music in the breeze. 
Music, music everywhere — 

Through the summer night, 
A thousand thousand little folk 
Come trooping into sight. 

Fairies, fairies, Little Folk, 

'Neath the silver moon. 
Have you anywhere, perchance. 

Met with Berylune? 
Berylune who comes disguised 

To many a restless heart. 
Alas! for those who never know 

The healing of her art. 

Once she came to visit me; 

But I called her old. 
Ugly, bent, a withered hag; 

Scorned her when she told 
Of her beauties one by one ; 

Laughed; her lack of tress 
Looked repulsive; I could see 

Naught but ugliness. 



8i 



I spurned her hateful old-hag gift 

Left beside my door — 
A branch of sharp and prickly thorn, 

The like ne'er seen before. 
Beneath the thorn, a hickory stick 

Hard as malachite. 
And she smiled a strange, slow smile 

As she left my sight. 

I looked at her with scornful eyes. 

I did not know the way 
Of fairy folk, the dark disguise 

They wear in common day. 
I did not know my visitor 

Came from the fairy hill ; 
I did not know the priceless gift 

She wrapped in husk of ill. 

But lo! the thorn in royal leaf 

Bears blossom, fragrant white. 
Such flower would make of any bower 

A garden of delight. 
The hickory stick? A staff it proves 

For every rugged way. 
The tough and weathered wood bears bud 

And bloom and fruit to-day. 

Fairies, fairies, Little Folk 
*Neath the silver moon, 

82 



Prithee somewhere try to find 

The fairy Berylune. 
Be she in the bosky dell, 

Or the moon-flecked wood, 
Bring her hither, let me tell 

My word of gratitude. 

At last I see. Or late, or soon. 
Fairies, find me Berylune. 
I would have her bide and rest. 
Withered? No, a royal guest, 
A being wonderful and fair. 
With seeing eyes and golden hair. 
Who somewhere in the fairy mart 
Finds healing balsam for the heart. 
Fairies, fairies, late, or soon. 
Bring me matchless Berylune ! 



83 



SESTINA 
(Italian legend of the Fireflies) 

WHAT time the silent footsteps of the Night 
Stole darkling through the valley, in the shade 
And cool of evening, 'neath Soracte's height, 

A Tuscan lady and her lover strayed. 
Her simple grace and charm were his delight; 
His paradise, her gentle presence made. 

The wind which tripped across the grasses made 
A compact with the mysteries of Night; 

And everything, which could the sense delight, 
Allured, enticed, until the fragrant shade 

Grew eloquent ; and they, who therein strayed. 
Talked — not of Rome when Rome was at its height, 

But rather of the breadth and depth and height 
Of all this wondrous world; of all things made; 

How some lone star, that from its orbit strayed, 
Illumed with meteor flash the gloom of Night; 

And after brilliant glow, how deep the shade; 
How chill the day succeeding lost delight. 

" But need our magic Garden of Delight 
Grow chill," the lover mused, "because this height 

We may not always tread ? Into the shade 
Must pass the greatest glory ever made; 

Yet memories are beautiful . . . and Night." 
And all his words were love, as on they strayed. 
84 



Adown the blue star-mead an angel strayed ; 

And, as she paused a moment, in delight. 
The lover's burning words fell on the night. 

She heard, and bending earthward from the height, 
She caught the words, transmuted each, and made 

A thousand winged lights flit through the shade. 

Long years ago, this chanced. Yet, still, the shade 
Of that old Garden where the lovers strayed, 

By dancing, quivering fire-fly light, is made 
A wonder-world inwrought with all delight. 

And never dark or voiceless is the height; 
These tiny, flashing stars illume each night. 

Forever walks the Night through twinkling shade; 

New songs are made; yet ever old delight. 
Immortal, crowns each height where love has strayed. 



85 



FIREFLIES ON MIDSUMMER NIGHT 

OH, the beauty of the meadow 
In the early summer evening, 
A-flashing and a-gleaming with a thousand tiny stars ! 
Oh, the something in the silence 
Of the fire-embroidered darkness 

Which holds a mortal soul enthralled beside the 
meadow bars ! 

Oh, the magic of the meadow. 
Of the fairy-haunted meadow, 

A-glitter in the gloaming with twinkling bits of light ! 
Oh, the swaying of the grasses. 
As from the woodland passes. 

The little folk come gathering to keep mid-summer 
night ! 

With black thorn from the hollow, 

With ash and oak they follow ; 

Across the scented fern they come and o'er the red- 
top grass. 

And when the planet Venus 

Drops low behind the pine-trees, 

The dance begins within the ring no mortal foot may 
pass. 

There's Cobweb and Peaseblossom, 
And close beside them, resting 

86 



For a moment on the umbel of a yellow parsnip weed, 
With glistening wings a-shimmer, 
In the darkling glow and glimmer, 
Sit mischief-maker Master Puck and little Mustard 
Seed. 

And the things they've brought for feasting 

As they rest between the dances! 

There's pollen bread and cricket-wing both sunbrowned 
to a turn ; 

And in tiny bee-leg baskets, 

There is fern-seed wrapped in magic, 

And ripe and rich such globes of wine as on the cur- 
rants burn. 

On ancient toad-stool tables, 
There are cheeses from the mallow, 
And tiny candelabra from the staghorn and the pine ; 
And from the hidden cellars 
Of the fairy market-places, 

Where glow-worms bask, a thousand casks of old and 
mellow wine. 

Their wine-glasses are goblets 

From the Elf-king's silver lichens. 

Each filled to over-flowing with a something clear like 

dew . . . 
But it isn't; it is nectar 

87 



From a thousand honied blossoms, 
Well-mixed and made into such drink as only fairies 
brew. 

Oh, the magic of the meadow! 
Oh, the wonder and the beauty, 

The mystery of little lights that set the world aglow ! 
And oh, the dull-eyed mortal 
A-peering through the shadow 

For a sight of things he cannot know ... of course 
he cannot know ! 

But I'm told, mid-summer evening, 

If he'll seek an upland pasture, 

If he'll wait and watch and listen till the night-sounds 

all grow still, 
If he's the friend of fairies, 
He'll be given double vision. 
He too shall see the lanterns flash across the fairy hill. 



88 



SIC TRANSIT 

THE moment goes. Oh! to detain it; 
Hold it fast in all its rapture; 
Break its wings, if need be; chain it! 

But let go, and then recapture. 
Such a task! The gods might do it. 
But we mortals? 

Winged, elusive 
Flies the bright thing. We pursue it, 

Led by some fond hope, delusive. 
That next minute we may hold it, 

Clasp it to our souls forever; 
In our longing arms enfold it ! 
Catch it? 

Keep it? 

Hold it? . . . Never! 



89 



THE DARK HOUR 

THE house is hushed, and I catch my breath, 
As from hall to stair I creep. 
It's a lonely thing to be about 
When the folks have gone to sleep. 

The world is wide, but the sun has set, 

And the gloom of night grows deep. 
It's a lonely thing to live, and live. 

When the folks have gone to sleep ! 



go 



BECAUSE I KNOW 

WHY don't you take to the Open Road? 
This pathway is hard at best ! " 
"But this is the way I was told to go. 
Would I find a place to rest." 

" And it's ill you're faring ! How can you go 

On and on toward the west ? " 
" There's a place just over the sunset rim 

Where I'm told tired folks may rest." 

" But the way is so long, and it ends in Night. 

You'll find it a fruitless quest." 
"No. Somewhere beyond the last great height, 

I know that my heart shall rest." 



91 



AT EVENING TIME 

Zechariah xiv : 7 

** A T evening time it shall be light." 
^ ^ Upon our grief and darkened sight 
The promise flashed ; and every shade 
Of doubt, of question, quick essayed 
To pass in judgment, "Wrong or Right?" 

Then we remembered yesternight. 
How, shot with sun-fire warm and bright, 
Each cloud in glory was arrayed, 
At evening time. 

What matter, then, the chill, the blight? 
The God who planned will guide aright. 
Our Pilot knows. And unafraid, 
Unshaken, fearless, undismayed, 
We'll meet what comes. It shall be light 
At evening time. 



92 



UNDER EACH FORM HE FINDS THEE, THE 

FORMLESS — 
AND THE ROAD OF THE MANY, GLEAMS, 

EVERYWHERE, ONE. 



93 



A few years more, or a few years less — 
What matter the time on a timeless way, 

If love that is Love is ours to bless; 
If the shining Comrade has come to stay; 

If the fellowship grows; and, more and more, 
The rapture deepens from year to year — 

There is no need of the other shore. 
Heaven is ours, and now and here. 



94 



MY WINDOW TO THE SKY 

I CARE not what the world may say, 
If I know that, on high. 
My life is known, and so I keep 
A window for the sky. 

And be the day or dark or bright, 

If clouds the sun deny. 
One place I know is always light — 

My window to the sky. 



95 



BEYOND 

YOU cannot hurt me now; I've passed beyond 
The fret of lesser things, the little fears 
Which dog the footsteps of the restless years, 
When all is young and hearts are over-fond. 

I've passed beyond, into a wonder-land, 
With lily-flower a-bloom and bird a-wing; 
More beautiful than ever earthly spring 
Devised. Some day your soul may understand. 

I've passed beyond the hurt. Immortal breath 
Of flame has swept my life, and left it free. 
I go triumphant. All the minstrelsy 
Of joy is theirs, who once have tasted death. 



96 



BACK OF THE SUNSET 

BACK of the sunset, 
Back of the shadow, 
Back of the sea and the stars and the moon, 
Back of the night-wind. 
Back of the morning. 
Ever the throb of the unwritten rune. 

Deeper than discord, 

Deeper than pleasure, 

Deeper than sorrow or hatred or wrong; 

Under the semblance 

Of life, life's full measure; 

Deep through the heart of earth, unwritten song. 

What is the message? 

What is the meaning? 

Deeper than word runs the wonderful theme. 

But barken and listen. 

The gleam of the Vision, 

The song of the triumph, past shadow and dream! 

Ever it calls us, 

Through midnight, through morning, 

Over the daisies with petals uncurled; — 

"Under all evil. 

An ultimate blessing." 

The Voice of the God in His garden, the World. 



97 



HE KNOWS 

HE knows. He knows 
Each path which goes 
Across the height, 
The lack of light; 
He knows each step 
Of all the way; 
He knows the burden 
Of each day; 
He knows each question, 
Each despair. 
The cross alone 
We could not bear. 
He knows each struggle, 
Each defeat; 
Each Vale of Baca 
He makes sweet. 
His love lies back 
Of all the ways. 
And since he portions 
Out the days. 
My only way. 
The way He goes. 
My sweetest song 
" He knows. He knows." 



98 



THE GIFTS 

GOD gave us tears, that we might find 
The voice of joy on every wind; 
The gift of shade, that every one 
Might find at last his gift of sun. 
And finding, know, by lighted mind, 
The changeless gleam which lurks behind 
Our simple days and simple morrows. 
For human joys and human sorrows 
Are all bound round with harmonies, 
For ear that hears and eye that sees. 

The merry Mays where robins nest, 
The Junes with garden roses dressed. 
Though royal rich, are not more sweet 
Than winter's frost and snow and sleet. 
Nor better here nor better there, 
For lighted soul, all things are fair. 

And all the birds on all the trees. 
The dawn, the moon, the singing seas, 
The sound which to the storm belongs, 
Are many notes of many songs. 
But many songs in many keys 
At heart are one — God's melodies. 



99 



ONE SPRINGTIME 

THE robins were nesting the first weeks I knew 
you; 
The oriole sang from the trees; 
The buds of the maple were reddening daily; 

The elm boughs bent to the breeze. 
And springtime passed by us, all beauty, all rapture, 

The cherry bloom whitened like snow. 
The year was at morn; it was ours, to recapture 
The secret, spring whispered long ages ago. 

But tell me, I pray thee, what word can translate it — 

The magic which hides in the song of a bird? 
The charm of the blossom, what language can mate it? 

Yet who can behold it with pulses unstirred? 
And we, as we listened and looked, all responsive, 

In simple good comradeship found, dew-empearled, 
One gleam of that jewel which holds lustre forever, 

A joy never found in the marts of the world; 

A something too fine for the dust and confusion ; 

A something too sweet for the crowd and the throng; 
A something defined by no speech ; one glad fusion 

Of notes for the soul, color, fragrance and song. 
We felt it — the Infinite Life underlying 

The blossom, the brook-song, the call of the bird; 
A something ineflFable, changeless, undying — 

God's Thought taking form at the Voice of His 
Word. 

100 



THE ONLY ROAD 

ONE road there is that stretches far 
Beneath earth's ever changing skies; 
One sure straight Road of all that are. 

And yet with dark world-blinded eyes, 
We pass the simple gateway by, 

Till, some day, bound by black despair, 
Bowed, breathless, spent, " Help Thou," we cry. 
And hear the Voice : — 

"Thy peace lies there! 
There blooms the fairest flower of life; 

Earth's noble great that way have trod. 
Back — to the Road of Sacrifice, 
The only road that leads to God ! " 



lOI 



EVERYMAN 

HE looked ahead — Gethsemane. 
The great road of the day- 
Lay through the garden dim discerned; 
There was no other way. 

He entered his Gethsemane; 

Beneath the crushing load 
Of woe unspeakable he bowed; 

Such gift had God bestowed. 

But in the holy world-freed hush, 

He heard new songs arise, 
And all the air grew strangely sweet 

With bloom of sacrifice. 

He passed beyond Gethsemane. 

Lo! like a shining track 
Across the way, a radiance lay. 

Gethsemane — looking back, 

He saw the gate of Paradise — 

The entrance to that land 
Where values change, where vision clears. 

And life can understand. 



102 



IN MEMORIAM 

LORD of the garnered grain, Thou God of men, 
From even-star to morning star, thy sun 
Is never lost. It sets, to rise again. 

And life, thy gracious gift, Thou Lord of Life, 
Though far its light be borne beyond our ken, 
Still is — imperishable life forevermore; 
It sinks to rise again. 

Thine eye keeps watch both sides the viewless screen 
This land of Time and thy great Timeless Land. 
Thy love annuls the space which lies between, 
Until, beyond our power to understand, 
We know — the comfort comes — or there, or here 
In thine unchanging love, the loved are near. 



103 



THE LOTUS SEED 

\ LOTUS seed lay a thousand years 
^ •*• In the dark of a Pharaoh's tomb. 
Unnoted it slept while the veiled days crept 

Ghost-footed, in stealth, through the gloom; 

Blown breath of the gods, a shadowy line, 

They fed on the sacred flower; 
Generations of men, they turned to dust; 

But the seed awaited its hour. 

Another thousand — till four, till five 

Mysterious cycles had passed; 
And the dust of a dim dead yesterday 

Was blown to the light at last. 

The sun and the rain and the withered seed 

Met in the quickening earth. 
And the germ which had slept five-thousand years 

Awoke to a second birth. 

A lotus flower of marvelous bloom 

Crept up from the silent sod — 
A word of the deathless life and love 

Of the Infinite beauty, God. 



104 



BENEATH ARCTURUS 

THROUGH the years, all time, we seek Him. 
Him we see not; yet we find 
Everywhere some wordless message 
From the timeless land. Behind 
Flower and fruit and fragrant grasses, 
Ever speaks the Master Mind. 

On all sides the speechless language. 

When the western evening breeze 
Shows the temple star, Arcturus, 

Flashing through the waving trees. 
Like some burnished lamp and golden, 

Hung between eternities. 

A strange hush falls on the spirit. 

Countless races, born to die 
As flowers fade, like song forgotten, 

Once looked up beneath the sky 
Where the temple star, Arcturus, 

Nightly flashed its light on high. 

I must pass, as those before me; 

Other men must pass as I. 
Friendly stars shall watch the passing. 

Shining in the quiet sky — 
Harbor-lights to that far haven 

Where all earth-born questions die. 

105 



While the temple star, Arcturus 

Hung between eternities 
With its flashing lamp and golden, 

Lights the changing centuries, 
We shall find Him. He will lead us 

Through the changeless verities. 



MY GARDEN WALK 

MY garden walk is narrow, but the boundaries are 
wide; 
My garden walk is narrow, but the arch above is high; 
In wealth of bloom, Contentment grows; and proof 
'gainst time and tide. 
My garden owns far reaches to the sky. 



io6 



INTO HIS HOUSE 

T NTO His house when the leaves were green, 
-*• Into His House of Life I came. 

The sunsets burned like a yellow flame. 

And the night and the day were hung between. 

Far and wide through His house I roam. 
He sets no bounds for the rich or poor; 
His gifts, his bounty are everywhere, 
And prince or pauper may feel at home. 

Never an hour but I seek my Host. 
I call Him; I search; I know He is here, 
By the strange awareness of someone near; 
But I turn to look, and the form is lost. 

Yet ever I feel an impulse stir, 
A nameless something which lures me forth 
On trackless ways, as a bird wings north. 
By the primal instinct which governs her. 

Someday, in snow, or when leaves are green. 
What time I know not — or soon, or late — 
When I pass out through the darker gate, 
Will He meet me, the One I have never seen? 

Shall I find Him beside the open door? 
Or beyond, somewhere, on the road of the miles 
107 



Which leads through the blossoming Afterwhiles? 
Shall I see Him then? Or mayhap before? 

I know but this : — I have heard His voice, 
It speaks me oft in the trysting place; 
And the Voice hath said, " Thou shalt see His face. 
Fare forth; thou shalt find Him!" I go, and 
rejoice. 



MY OFFERING 

MASTER of all gardens, Lord of mine, 
Offering of toil-filled days I bring, 
And seeds of thousand flowers to deck Thy shrine. 

Haply they may bud and put forth leaf 
Before the altar stone, in breath of praise. 
For which the whole of life were all too brief. 

So shall it fragrant grow, my offering — 
A-bloom with flower of song, for tired hearts. 
That travelers of the way may hear, and sing. 

And something sweet shall be through all the strife 
Of living. Help me, Thou of the Overword, 
To do my best with my small plot of life ! 



io8 



HIGHWAY AND BYWAY 

I LIVE to serve. Lord, show me how to serve. 
My center, Thee, the source from which I draw 
All strength to serve, all willingness to dare, 
All joy, all peace, supply for every need. 

And if so be thy path of learning lead 
Along the darkened ways of life, through loss, 
Or pain, or weakened human strength, may each 
Thy teacher be of holier ministry! 

Grant, Lord, thy peace, thy gift unspeakable! 
Not that my tower of life may be for me 
Alone, a place of rest, a sheltered room. 
From which unhappy thought and dull-eyed pain 
And cry of anguish from a struggling world 
Have entrance barred. Not this my prayer. 

But rather, 
Calm and peace, abundant, housed within — 
To meet each need, should traveler come to find. 
The grace to stoop, if stooping I may lift; 
And joy, abiding joy, that I may give 
To every joyless one who seeks my door. 

And if, perchance, my sympathies grow weak. 
Through suffering, let me learn what suffering 



109 



That I may know the burden others bear! 
Enlarge my vision till I understand, 
And understanding, share my wine of life 
With other souls athirst with human need! 

So would I serve. Lord show me how to serve ! 
And if so be thy path of learning lead 
Along the darkened ways of life, through loss 
Or pain or weakened human strength, may each 
Thy teacher be of holier ministry! 



IIO 



SONG OF THE WINGED SOUL 

TRIUMPHANT, exultant I ride 
On the tide of the worlds. 
Over lines of the pines 
Where the pale moonlight shines; 
Through aisles of the grove, 
I ride and I ride. 
I rove over fields of white clover 
And myrtle and ilex and rose; 
I go to the desolate lands 
Where the red flower of sacrifice grows, 
To find offering meet 
For His shrine — 
The shrine of the Perfect, 
The all things in one. 
What matter the night without star, 
Or the grey of a day without sun! 
There is ever, immortal, the gleam, 
As forth on His errands I run. 
I run or I ride — 
Triumphant, exultant and free. 
I know neither discord nor dole, 
For the One in the many is mine; 
His purpose, the breath of my soul. 



Ill 



L'ENVOI 

ON the road I hear this music 
Where it turns to climb the hill: — 
" You, who bend beneath life's burden. 
Weary, toiling, seeking still — 

Know, in all things, you can Hud me. 
Love the Lode Star, seeker, guide. 

Day and night, all time, unfailing, 
I am ever by your side. 

I, who made the meadow lilies, 

I, who gave the bird its wing, 
I can make your thorn-tree blossom. 

And all life a singing thing. 

Singing, though the twilight deepens 

Into darkness on the Hill 
Of World's Ending. Through all shadows, 

I am Love zvho leads you still." 



112 



SONNETS 



"3 



THE WINE OF LIFE 

THE wine of life lies all across each page, 
A pulsing tide ; and rich, so rich, no gold 
Could buy; new-pressed from blood-red blossoms, sold 
In but one market-place — love's heritage. 
Like some rare vintage from the golden age, 
Time-mellowed; warm as color rubies fold 
About their hearts, and hoard and hold. 
Against some sun-lit hour of privilege ; 
So this, life's wine, close guarded through the years, 
And kept all pure, all sweet, lies spilt at last, 
For you, Beloved. Take it, let it lie 
To cover up that other stain, my tears 
Once made . . . God saw, when first the Shadow passed. 
If this, too, stains the pages, pass it by. 



"5 



LOVE PLAYS FOR THOSE WHO UNDERSTAND 

/^ NE reads to-day of spiritless desire, 
^^^ Of cold possession and a dearth of song; 
A god of love who listless limps along, 
Or prostrate lies on his own funeral pyre. 
I half believed it truth until Love's lyre 
Across my lonely pathway sounded long 
And clear and sweet, and one from out life's throng 
Stepped sudden forth. Flame from burnt out fire 
Leaps not more unexpected. All life grew. 
That hour, in joyance, great with hope and trust. 
A master spirit held me by the hand, 
And drew me onward, upward, till I knew 
In one clear flash the truth. O hearts of dust. 
Love plays . . . and sweet, for those who understand. 



ii6 



A DIM REMEMBRANCE STIRS 

A DIM remembrance stirs ; and yet there lies 
Some veil upon the sense ; we cannot see 
Clear-eyed, with open vision ; memory, 
At best, but half-awake, gives vague replies 
To all our questions ; but ... I met your eyes 
Three years ago, and all came back to me — 
The old old halcyon days; the mystery 
Of things not all forgotten; starry skies, 
And wind-swept midnights rose; a strange sweet sense 
Of having known you, always, flashed across 
My work-day world; and, instant, all the drear 
Dull outlook changed to gold — a recompense 
Well worth for all the trial and grief and loss. 
For all the long long way from year to year. 



117 



I LEARNED TO KNOW 

BUT "three brief years"! Beloved, is it so? 
Such words are but a semblance of the truth. 
For somewhere, ages gone, in this world's youth, 
In times which men forget, I learned to know 
Your voice, your eyes ; the soul which stirs below 
Those pulsing depths ; which rises swift, forsooth, 
To call my own, past all the wrong and ruth, 
To higher levels than the World can show. 
Aye, you were mine ere Babylon was built; 
Ere Rome and Carthage lay beneath the sun. 
Some Shape, in passing near us, sudden spilt 
The sacred wine; we tasted and grew one. 
Grew one, aye, one forevermore became 
In that dim land past sight, past date, past name. 



ii8 



THE THOUGHT OF YOU 

AS oft, in passing by a dewy spray 
Of garden roses, lightest touch will shake 
A shower of pearly drops, which, falling, break 
In wondrous beauty on the dusty way; 
So just the thought of you — and yesterday, 
Strikes swift across my soul, and doth awake 
A thousand high resolves which, for your sake, 
Would hold all things 'neath one imperious sway. 
Oh, great is God, and good to let us know 
How perfect is the cup for those who love ! 
Some hearts thirst always — never taste the wine. 
But God is good! He let us meet, to show 
How life on earth might match the life above, 
And daily sound new depths of the divine. 



119 



I LOVE THEE 

I LOVE thee? Yes! How much? I cannot say. 
Go ask the wave how much it loves the sea, 
The garden lily how it loves the bee, 
The amorous day-star how it loves the day. 
Go ask all things that are. Perchance, the way 
To measure love some know with certainty. 
Not I ! Such loves combined, with mine to thee 
Compared, are frail as foam-flecked ocean spray. 
But this I know: my soul strange music hears. 
Since, on the way, I met with thee and love. 
Through everything there runs sweet undertone. 
The joy of knowing thee, through these brief years. 
Stands, God alone all other things above, — 
The greatest thing my life has ever known. 



120 



THE LOVE I SING 

THE love I sing, is not the common weed 
Of mere acceptance with its root of gain, 
Its flower of selfish interest, its grain 
Of fruitful discontent — a dangerous seed. 
I sing that other love — the world has need, 
Great need, of such to still life's restless pain. 
The love of loving Service, fresh as rain 
Upon a parched land, and sweet indeed. 
And I, who sing, sing on because my love, 
Grown great enough to serve, seeks only ways 
To serve, Beloved. Simply as a flower 
Gives of its fragrance to the air above, 
So I would give my best, through all my days. 
To help, to cheer, to bless you, hour by hour. 



121 



I SING BECAUSE I MUST 

SUCH love as this were not unworthy love! 
I know it as I write ; and yet, at times, 
I feel myself less worthy, writing rhymes 
To fit my mood. Like one who wears above 
His deed the blazoned record of it, wove 
With scarlet — his own choice, and as he climbs, 
Holds the device so all must see, lest chimes 
Of bells and ringing rhymes forget to prove 
His prowess, men his praise to speak. 
For sacred as some Delphic shrine, I hold 
The miracle of love. I only sing. 
As sings the lark at morn, when mountain peak 
Throws off its mantling mist, and shows all gold 
Because I must when love lights everything. 



122 



YOU WROUGHT THE JOY, NOT I 

IF someday, near God's throne, a radiant thing, 
In angel guise, should meet you, and should say 
The while with puzzled eyes, as dreamers may. 
You struggle vainly to recall — " You bring 
No recollection? No remembering? 
Have you so soon forgot the darkened day, 
The load another bore, the dusty way, 
The help, the joy you gave?" H wondering 
At lack of memory, you should disclaim 
All knowledge of this deed, or hold untrue. 
Oh, take the laurel, dear; do not deny; 
For I — I had the chance — and in your name 
I gave; at every turn I helped. But you 
Were in my heart; you wrought the joy, not I! 



1:^3 



IMMUNITY 

tt'lT 7 HO once has supped with me," a low Voice 

VV said, 
" Has naught to fear ; I free from petty ills. 
No change of time or tide, no frost that kills, 
No blight, no power of living thing, or dead, 
Henceforth shall bind him; no, nor any dread 
Of one grim shape. But, free as air that fills 
The empyrean vast, wherever spirit wills, 
He goes, unbound, untrammeled, comforted." 
The low Voice ceased. I raised my eyes to see 
What thing of chance or fate beside me stood. 
Lo ! Grief, with wine which Grief Supreme distils, 
Did bid me drink. Oh, strange immunity! 
Who quaffs such wine, I slowly understood, 
Forever strikes the blow to lesser ills. 



124 



THE BATTLE IS NOT YOURS 

* <' I ''HE battle is not yours, but God's," I heard 

-i» The preacher say. "And not alone ye fight! 
Be not afraid, nor yet dismayed! In might 
Just cause shall be established." The great word 
Of faith triumphant echoed till it stirred 
Responsive faith, and in the hush of night, 
I left my life with God, assured the right. 
The best, would come — in his own time preferred. 
Since when, in waiting just God's time — God's way — 
God's marking for the path — like some small child 
All confident, I work with mind at rest. 
Fearless, when noon turns midnight — for the day 
Lies somewhere, just beyond. However wild, 
The storm will clear at last. And God knows best! 



125 



BY PATHWAY OF THE EVENING STAR 

I CANNOT mingle with the crowd to-night, 
And idly sit and watch the Jersey Shore, 
Though dusk grows warm with beauty as, once more, 
Night's gipsy comes to spell with darkling light 
The river-tide. I cannot bear the sight 
Of noisy people passing evermore 
With laugh and jest. For lo! the spirit door 
In my clay-shuttered house is sudden bright. 
And I must out, down purpling lanes afar, 
To find the trysting place, lest shadow fall 
Upon the road with half its length untrod. 
I go by pathway of the evening star. 
To-night I cannot heed a lesser call — 
I need the silence and the touch of God. 



126 



LIFE'S LODE STAR 

HOU great Unseen, Life's Lode Star, from my 
heart 

Through vales of endless silence rings the cry, 
I love Thee! Thought of Thee can glorify 
The dusty ways of earth, and change the chart 
Of all the universe, each smallest part 
Reflecting still thy loveliness. And I, 
Companioned by strange joy, would magnify 
Thy name, till every note of praise should start 
Another song, more perfect, more complete. 
Than any rose-crowned year has sung by land 
Or moonlit sea. No song of love, confest 
Beneath compelling eyes, could be as sweet 
As this, the miracle. I understand — 
And love life most, when loving Thee the best. 



127 



